“I brought you a present,” she offered him a box.
“I thought you never wanted to see me again,” he raised a bushy eyebrow, suspicious she’d returned after their previous encounter.
“I had half a bottle of wine,” she replied, by way of explanation. “Then I saw your name attached to impeachment in the paper.”
“Ah, you came to rub salt in my wounds.”
“Yes, but that’s win-win for both of us, isn’t it?”
“Because seeing me down soaks your knickers?”
“You know it does,” she shrugged. “We don’t have to like each other to work together. Think of me like your secretary of war!”
“I fired Stanton.”
“Oh,” she set the box on the nightstand. “Well, what I say still stands.”
“I could use a distraction,” he agreed, still unsure where he stood with her, but welcoming her presence nonetheless.
“Poor sweet baby. Congress is going to impeach you, and you just need to take your mind off things,” she cooed, running her hands up his back. She gently traced the nape of his neck, feeling him shudder under her familiar touch.
“I need to just…” he frowned, searching.
“Not be in control for awhile?”
He nodded; she remained behind him. He undressed for her, knowing she had little time or desire for romance. In the meantime, she opened the box to reveal a phallic shaped object (smaller than his own, he noticed appreciatively) made of rubber.
“You know what this is?” She asked, grinning.
“I’m not so dense. You want me to use that?”
“Oh, no, sweetheart. It’s not for me.”
He froze momentarily, but the idea intrigued him and he felt his cock harden at her suggestion. She wasted no time, reaching down to stroke his member, and he remained powerless in her grip. There was a restrained violence in her touch, and he loved the way she took control of the situation.
“Tonight, Andy, I’m going to fuck you.”
He gasped, felt his body clench. She leaned forward, kissed his cheek, then let her tongue thoroughly explore his ear while he moaned in pleasure. She wanted to give to him what he’d been giving to Congress, to the South, to the countless Americans freed from slavery only to find an unsympathetic racist occupy the White House. She guided him to the bed. He instinctively faced her, his girthy johnson searching for her warm southern homestead. She pulled away, removed the dildo from the gilded box. He watched as she took it into her mouth, swallowing its length easily. He was rock hard, imagining those lips taking him instead, and he began touching himself at the thought. This thrilled her in return; she loved watching him almost as much as she hated his policies.
“Bend over,” she directed, the dildo now well lubricated. He stood, nervously, not completely convinced. Her eyes hardened and she made it clear she wasn’t asking, “You’re going to take this. You’re mine tonight.”
He nodded, “I’m yours.”
“Say it again.”
Louder. “I’m yours.”
He positioned himself as she desired and she drove the toy inside him. He nearly screamed; it hurt something fierce, but it was incredible in the same breath. She was violating him, like he’d violated the Constitution. Her hand ran down his back, she encouraged him to relax, to want it. And he did want it, the sensation was marvelous and her rhythm sending the right amount of rough pleasure through his body. She spit on him, sped up, filled him while he grunted like an animal.
“You like this don’t you?” She asked, driving it in again and again.
He choked out a yes.
“You’re a dirty boy, letting me fuck you. You’re trash. Tell me you’re garbage.”
“I’m garbage,” he replied, unthinking. He’d gotten used to the the feeling now and it was driving him insane, and he didn’t care what she made him say as long as she kept pounding him. He would’ve kissed every Radical Republican on the mouth if she’d demanded; he certainly would’ve forgotten his opposition to the Fourteenth Amendment if it meant that she’d continue to slide in and out.
She, too, was lost in the moment, loving her newfound power. Watching him respond to her touch and mastery was intoxicating. The warm wetness on her inner thighs betrayed her enthusiasm, though luckily he was unable to see her. She pulled in and out, reminding him he wasn’t that powerful, taking him away from politics by forcing him to submit to someone with no political power. That thought made her smirk, because surely he’d underestimated her.
“Are you going to come for me?”
He moaned. “Mmmf. Yes. God yes I’ll do anything for you.”
“Stop violating the Tenure of Office Act.”
“Stop violating me,” he tried to respond sharply, but any ground he gained was lost when she entered him again. He was close, too, and wanted desperately to come for her. He remembered his speaking tour, how ungrateful the crowds had been, how terribly Northerners acted in his presence. He deserved to take this for those moments; this degrading (but oh, so good) encounter was his penance for swinging around the circle.
And then she stopped, withdrew the baton. He turned, gingerly, and met her eyes.
“It’s getting late,” she stated, rather perfunctory. “I think perhaps we’ll continue this next week.”
She was pulling on her dress before he could argue, not that he could find the words anyway. Andrew Johnson had been denied frequently throughout his term (it wasn’t his term, it was Lincoln’s; that was the problem), but this was egregious. This was not a way to treat a president.
She could read his expression and it delighted her. “You might want to rethink your feelings on equal protection under the law,” she laughed, winked at him, and disappeared out the door.